She took the boy's raw, bloody hand. God, he's younger than Alex. He might have been good-looking when he got older, she thought. But his face was studded with a volcanic case of acne, and his hair was oily and unkempt. "Relax, kiddo," she said, pitching her voice low. "The ambulance is on the way. You're going to be all right," she Lied.

The boy turned his face towards her. It was filled with pain and confusion. "...hurts," he whispered. Blood leaked from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, I suppose it does," she said.

“Didn't your mother teach you to look both ways before you crossed the street?"

His eyes widened, then he gave a cut-off Laugh, scarcely more than a heavy breath. Something stirred behind his eyes, and for an instant, the hand in hers grew warm, as if his life, fading away, had paused for an instant to say farewell. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see police cars tearing up the street towards them, their Lights flashing and sirens screaming. The driver of the bus had climbed out of his vehicle, and was now slowly walking over to her, his dark face gray with shock.

“Hello,” the boy whispered.

When Rachel looked down, he was gone.

Over an hour Later, the police finally Let her go home. She had discovered to her consternation that the young man who had died, practically in her arms, was a kidnapper. He had drugged a young woman at Northwestern and hauled her out to the suburbs. Once there, he had started a bizarre ritual, the purpose of which the police were still trying to ascertain.

“Strangest thing I ever saw," said the detective who had taken her statement. He jerked his head towards a warehouse a few hundred yards away.

“He had this poor girl laid down in a circle, with weird markings all over the floor. Candles and whatnot all around her. And some old book lying there when we cleaned the mess up. God knows what he thought he was doing." He nodded as a young woman was Led into an ambulance.

She was covered in a blanket, and even at this distance they could see her staggering steps were slow and uneven.

Rachel rubbed her forehead and grunted. She was tired and stressed and sick to her stomach after watching a man die, and all she wanted was to leave this scene of bloody death and mayhem. She brushed ineffectually at her skirt, which was grimed with dirt from where she had knelt on the road. "Can I go?" she asked. "I've told you all I know. Which isn't much. I need to get home and make sure my kids are all right." Rachel had called Sarah, her daughter, to let her know the would be even later than usual tonight. But right now she needed the comfort only her home could give her.

“Let's have the doc check you out, and then we'll let you be on your way," Detective Garrity agreed. He stood and raised his voice.

“Doc!

Get your ass over here. That boy ain't going to get any deader. And this Lady has been real patient so far."

“You're an embarrassment to the force, Detective," a tall, shambling man said, making his way over to them. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and he wore an aura of unhurried competence. He pulled a penlight out of one pocket and shone it in Rachel's eyes. She squinted at the glare.

“And you're making a witness wait while you poke around at a guy who's going to be laid out on a slab in the morgue in a couple of hours. I don't know why he's more interesting dead than she is alive,

Augustine."

“Call it professional curiosity, Darryl. I was hoping to find some clue as to why this guy went completely off his nut that way. Useless, I suppose." He turned off the Light and dropped it back into his slacks.

“Your eyes are dilated, but that's normal in this light. No signs of a concussion."